I WAS MADE TO HIT IN AMERICAAAA

[usavatar]

He should know not to go out at night by himself. Not because he's in any danger - Captain America in New York City on a less-than-average day doesn't have much to worry about. But because, almost without exception, he gets lost. Steve tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans and squints up at the buildings around him, ignoring the college student who staggers by, stops to stare at him, and bursts out laughing before moving on.

He's used to that, too, by now. Apparently dressing conservatively these days isn't a reflection of care for the resources of the country, or a side-effect of living life as a soldier for two years - it's just "dorky." At least he doesn't feel like someone's taped a sign to his back, not since he asked Darcy - Agent Lewis - why he kept getting that reaction.

Of course the fact that she had to explain what 'Because you're a dork' meant didn't really help his... street cred. He chuckles to himself, only a little ironic, at managing to use both terms in one train of thought.

A few streets later he's getting very confused. Usually he's able to find at least one familiar street or landmark to point him in the general right direction, at least until he finds a cab to get him the rest of the way back to the mansion. He's done this enough in the months he's been here that his assigned SHIELD shadows don't pop a vein unless he's not back by morning - in this case, though, that's probably working against him.

Finally Steve sighs and digs into his pocket to pull out his cellular phone. He looks at it for a moment, smiling to himself and wondering what Howard would make of all this. Tiny phones with tinier batteries and communicators and jets that don't need runways to take off.

Well, for all Steve knows, Howard invented most of it. He still hasn't been able to bring himself to look at history texts to see how his friends lived out their lives. There's something too much like admitting he's never going to see them again in doing that.

He flips the phone open gingerly, poking the tiny buttons with his pinky because he's not sure how else to manage the thing, and dials in what he's fairly sure is Darcy's number. Agent Lewis's number. He could try calling someone else, but she's friendly, in her own way. She doesn't treat him like a loaded gun waiting to be pointed at the next Big Bad Guy.

Steve lifts the phone to his ear with a frown. "Uh. Hello?"

Comments

[toseethesunrise.livejournal.com]

Quorra blinks down at her phone--Sam had bought it for her shortly after they'd gotten settled into his apartment--staring at the unknown number. Not that it was a surprise to have it be unrecognizable, since she only had three numbers listed anyway (Sam's, Alan's, and Lora's). But she likes talking on the phone--it's really fun--so she slides it open and puts it to her ear.

"Hello?"

sure let's do this in between vacuums. 8D

[hulk]

Bruce was actually awake - not that it's any real surprise given the whole living in a windowless basement thing. Add that to having nowhere to go, really, except for missions which could happen any time of the day or night (and did), and an already long-held habit of working until crashing and then crashing until waking up again... Dr. Banner's never really been one for the whole 'eight hours a night' thing.

But the point is that he's up to hear his phone start that tinny .midi mash-up of 'It's Not Easy Being Green' and 'Don't Worry Be Happy'. (The first time he'd heard it after Tony rang him up to demonstrate, he'd only been able to stare in disbelief. Tony hadn't stopped grinning for a minute and the whole week after was full of inane texts just so Tony could hear it go off again. Bruce still hadn't figured out how to change the ringtone - Stark must have gone and hacked the thing. He certainly wouldn't put it past the man.) There's only a few people who have this number, and of those people the reasons they'd probably have for calling him at any time of the d- n- whichever it was, the reasons most likely weren't going to be good. So it's with a long-suffering sigh and the heel of his hand scrubbing against his eyes that he finally opens the darn thing and answers.

"Yes?" He silently chides himself for sounding so exasperated, then dog-ears the page he was on before setting his book down on the bed next to him.. "I mean, hello? Uh."

[tasering.livejournal.com]

While Darcy normally would prefer to stay up late watching awesome TV on Nickelodeon or TVLand, it's been a long day of avoiding Fury and making out with Clint in shady corners of huge office buildings. All in all, a pretty productive day if she says so herself.

So when she's roused from just falling asleep by her phone blaring America, Fuck Yeah Darcy greets it with no small amount of grumbling why she searches for her glasses and her phone. Not necessarily in that order.

"Agent Darcy Lewis, super secret spy for Chechen rebels unless you're Putin. How may I help you?" A pause, because she knows that voice and, more importantly, knows that ringtone. Darcy just needs her brain to catch up with her a bit. "Hey Cap."

[stolenhair.livejournal.com]

Sif had, initially, gone into the bar for a simple drink. One drink had turned into another and had turned into another partly out of a challenge issued by another patron and partly because a different patron had offered to pay for her drink. She wasn't all that concerned with becoming drunk or even tipsy - Earth's best spirits couldn't match with those of Asgard, but there were (apparently) customs that dictated her actions about who she would return 'home' with.

Her answer, after implying 'No' quite loudly, was simply to pick up the offender and throw him. Straight through the window.

And perhaps into any hapless individuals who had been walking by.

[notfauxlivia.livejournal.com]

The street was empty a moment ago. Something in the fabric of the universe twists and warps, subtly enough to miss it unless you happen to be alert and lucky, and then a woman appears from thin air and hits the ground hard. She looks like hell, exhausted and bedraggled, red hair and thin white pajamas both dripping wet - and now she's probably badly bruised where she hit the sidewalk, but that's really the least of her concerns.

Olivia scrambles to her feet, takes stock of her surroundings with obvious dismay, and then turns to focus on the guy with the cellphone. The fact that he doesn't seem to be a Fringe Agent and isn't pointing a gun at her is at least mildly comforting. Nothing else really is.

Her tone is flat when she speaks, but not enough to entirely cover the edge of fading hope, or the despair creeping back in. "...this isn't Boston, is it?" She has to ask, though she's fairly certain she knows the answer already.